False Names
by FanOfEverything707
Summary: Everyone is born with the name of their soulmate on their wrist. Sherlock has met so may, but none of them are the right John. It is frustrating for your soulmate's name to be so common. Meanwhile John has returned from war and still hasn't met William. A friend introduced him to Sherlock, and he felt a connection. But can he have a relationship someone else? Johnlock.
1. Old Friends

**Hi readers! This is my first Sherlock fanfiction so I hope you enjoy!** **This story will probably have around 10 to 15 shortish chapters, but maybe more or less depending on how I'm feeling. Updated whenever I finish.**

**This is set in parallel to the first episode of BBC's Sherlock, A study In Pink. However, it is set in an AU where everyone is born knowing the first name of their soulmate.**

**I should make it clear that they know there birth name and there birth name only. If someone changes there name due to gender identity or just choice, their soulmate knowledge will not change. Also, people do not know the gender of their soulmate. All they know is there birth name e.g. Tessa, Will, Alex.**

**Also, I would like to say that I do not claim to understand issues in this story such as PTSD. I have done some research but my understanding is minimal. **

**Constructive criticism appreciated**** Xx**

**_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters, plots of lines from BBC's Sherlock. This fanfiction is not canon and does not aline with canon._**

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**Chapter 1 - Old Friends**

_He could feel the dust of the desert in his nose, making him want to sneeze. But he couldn't. The unconsious woman laying in front of him bleeding from the stumpy remains of a foot made sure of that.__The air was hazy, he didn't know whether from smoke or the daze and noise of battle. Well, he wasn't exactly in battle, was he. He just dealt with the aftermath._

_The woman on the table was becoming increasingly pale, the pool of blood increasing. She was not found until a full fifteen minutes after the bomb_-

_No. He had to keep focused. He turned around to get some bandages when the door burst open. Men dressed all in black rushed in holding guns - enemy guns. Before he could do anything more than reach for his own semi automatic hand gun, he heard the crack of the trigger, the bang of the explosion and felt the terrible pain of the bullet entering his body in his left shoulder. __The noise of more guns rattled in his ears as he fell to his knees and before he knew it, there were bodies everywhere, blood mixing on the floor. So many bodies and guns and blood. Bodies and guns and bl-_

John Watson woke up sweating. He glances at the digital clock, 04:32, before took a few deep breaths. (His therapist had recommended it, apparently it helped, though it didn't seem to effective.) The same dream, night after night. You'd thought you'd get used to it. But you didn't. The dreams always felt so real, but then they weren't really dreams at all. They were memories, and that was worse, in a way. He held up his left hand to check to see if it was shaking, and of course it was. It always was these days. He checked the other hand; dead still. He cringed at his own choice of words. _Dead still. _

He didn't go back to sleep that night.

He needed to get out the house. He was walking through the park, the silence broken only by the sound of birdsong and the _tap tap _of his walking stick. His leg was hurting him more than usual lately. In the opposite hand he held his coffee, the cardboard hot in his rough hands. Another night of no sleep left him tired. He had barely had a full night of sleep since he came back, and the dark shadows under his eyes were becoming more and more pronounced. The soft fabric of his jumper was comforting though, a far cry from his army uniform.

"John! John Watson!" called a familiar voice behind him. He turned around and saw a short, pudgy man with grey hair attempting a to jog to keep up with him. He recognised the man, but couldn't place him.

"It's Mike Stanford, we studied at St Bart's together."

"Oh yeah. Of course," replied John, balancing his walking stick against his leg to shake hands with Mike. In truth, he didn't remember him at all.

"What've you been up to?" inquired this new-old acquaintance. "Last I heard you were off somewhere being shot at?"

John shrugged his shoulders, staring down at his shabby trainers. "I got shot."

John and Mike sat down on the park bench, talking about stupid stuff like the weather, when John brought up the tattoo on the inside of their wrists.

"So have you met them yet?" John said in an off hand way.

"Yeah, ten years now," said Mike rolling up his sleeve, showing a single word, _Jannet,_ in black ink. "Been married for a few. Very happy together."

"Good to hear," John said sighing. In fact, he was rather jealous. Almost all people his age had met their soulmate, and he had yet to come close. He subconsciously touched his watch strap that was obscuring the name written there.

"You still at Bart's then?" said John, keen to change the subject.

"Teaching now, bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them." They both had a quick laugh before moving on.

"You staying in town until you get yourself sorted?" Mike asked.

"I can't adore London on an army pension."

"And you couldn't bare to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"Yeah well I'm not the John Watson you know." He immediately wished he hadn't said that, and a good ten seconds of silence followed.

"Couldn't Harry help?" said Mike, breaking the awkward moment.

"Like that's going to happen," John scoffed.

"Why not get a flatmate or something?"

"Oh come on. Who would want me as a flat mate."

Mike chuckled to himself, much to the confusion of the ex soldier. What had he said?

"What is it?" queried John "What did I say?

"It's just that you're the second person to say that to me today."

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**And that's the first chapter! Hope you enjoy this chapter and the coming ones Xx**


	2. New Aquaintances

**Hi readers! This is the second chapter of my story and I hope you enjoy. Constructive criticism appreciated Xx **

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_New Aquaintances_

Sherlock Holmes was in the mortuary. In front of him lay a body. A dead body. But there was no point getting all sad about it. People die every day and this is just another one of those people. He didn't see why it was such a fuss. This body was fresh in and had belonged to a male, mid fifties, overweight, died of smoking relarelated illnesses, played rugby semi professionally until he sustained an injury and enjoys young adult fiction novels. He shook that last detail out of his head.

Sherlock unbuttoned the cuffs of his shirt, then rolled them up to just above his elbow. He took the riding crop from the cold metal table and looked at his watch. 11:29 am. Sherlock raised the riding crop above his head and brought it down across the mans bare back. Again. And Again. And again. By the time he had finished it was 11:32 and there were red slashed all over the mans back. Some had opened wounds while others remained scarlet marks, though none had bled more than a dark ooze of blood. The corpse was at least six hours old, meaning the blood would mostly have clotted by now. That ruined the scientific accuracy of the experiment a little, but it was illegal to murder people, ever for science.

He turned to his assistant, Molly Hooper. She was twenty five or twenty seven (he often deleted useless information to make room for more important things), had had little sleep the previous night and was thinking of asking someone on a date today. Unhelpful deductions often popped into him mind without them meaning to.

"I want to know what bruises form in the next twenty minutes, a man's alibi depends on it," Sherlock said while removing his gloves, speaking quickly. He always spoke fast as there were much better things to do than talk.

"Sure," said Molly, and added, " I was wondering if when you finish you might like to -"

"You're wearing lipstick. You weren't wearing lipstick before," Sherlock stated.

"Oh... um yeah... I was... trying something new," Molly stammered.

"Anyway, you were saying?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to get coffee." Molly rushed before he could change the subject agian.

"Black, two sugars please." Sherlock was already walking out of the mortuary and into the lab next door.

"Ok..." sighed Molly, still smiling, but a little sadly. This was the third time he had brushed her off this week. _It wasn't his fault he couldn't take hints _thought Molly. _It's just the way he is._

But Sherlock had already forgotten his conversation with her, as in walked a man he had already seen today. People didn't often come back to see him again, especially in the same day. He tended to make enemies easily. But even this distracted him from who next walked into the messy lab.

For once, more than deductions flooded into Sherlock's brain. He noticed how he muttered "a bit different from my day..." as he entered, (suggesting trained as a doctor). He noticed that the man was at least half a head shorter than him and that he had no tan past his sleeves (abroad but not sunbathing). He noticed that his early greying hair was swept back across his head in an elegant wave, but that it had only been allowed to grow longer recently (military) and than he held a walking stick but did not ask to sit (psychosomatic?).

He noticed his eyes were almond shaped and were a pale grey with a darker line around the outside. He also had dark circles bellow the eyes as promenant as bruises (nightmares). He noticed that his jawline was rounded and that he had wrinkles around the eyes, although not in a way that made him look old. He noticed how he wore a watch in his dominant hand, hiding the name written there (either he has not met his soulmate or uncomfortable with who they are). There were many other things he noticed, of course, he wasn't slipping, but all were overwhelmed by one.

He noticed how handsome he was.

This thought did not alarm Sherlock, as he had known he was gay for many years, most of his life in fact. No one knew the gender of there soulmates, and just because the name was masculine, it was offensive to asume that was their current gender. But he knew his soulmate was male, just as he knew he was gay. However, this guest in his lab did surprise him; he couldn't remember the last time he was attracted to someone.

He was aware he was staring a little, so sat down to examine a specimen at the microscope.

"Mike," he said, staring through the lense at the clump of mud he had take from a crime scene. "Can I borrow your phone? Mine has no signal."

" What's wrong with the landline?" asked Mike, walking over to the old fashioned telephone that hung on the wall.

"I prefer to text." Sherlock said simply.

"Sorry, it's in my coat downstairs."

"Hear," John interrupted. "Use mine."

"Oh. Um... Thank you." Sherlock said. He was not used to kindness, and was surprised this man had offered something to him so readily; _he won't be so kind once he gets to know me _he thought. He got up to take the phone from him, and saw it was a new model, but with lots of scratches and an engraving on the back. There were all sorts of things he could say about this. All the dots began to join up in his head.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson..." If Mike continued talking after this, Sherlock did not hear it. _John Watson. _He was glad he had rolled his shirt sleeve back down, as the the word written there would have been clearly visible in a shade a few darker than his skin tone. Written there was the name **_John_**.

But he didn't let himself become hopeful. There were approximately 5, 417, 065 people called John in the US alone, let alone the rest of the world. Not that be had looked it up or anything.

He continued to type his message into the phone, but was barley thinking, barley breathing. _Stop getting your hopes up. Just stop it. _

"Afghanistan or Iraq," Sherlock said in as normal a voice he could manage. He wanted to impress John. If this really was his soulmate, he didn't want to get off on the wrong foot. Not that there was any possibility if him being his soulmate. He has been let down too many times to believe that.

"Sorry?" John replied, his voice steady, though Sherlock suspected he was more unnerved than he was letting on. He looked over at Mike, but only got a mysterious smile in return.

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan. Sorry how did yo-"

Molly had just returned from her trip to the cafe down stairs, holding two cardboard cups. "Ah Molly, coffee, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?" Sherlock questioned. Normally he did not care about this sort of stuff, but he wanted to at least _seem _nice in from of this new acquaintance who had his soulmate's name. Plus, it was a good distraction.

"It wasn't working for me," she replied, handing over one of the cups.

"Really? I thought it was a big improvement. Your mouths too small now." One look at Molly's face told him this was the wrong thing to say if he was being nice.

" OK..." she said again, turning around and sighing.

"How do you feel about the violin?" Sherlock asked out of the blue, looking directly at John.

" Sorry,_ what?" _John said, his grey eyes meeting Sherlock's tri coloured ones.

"I often play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes I don't speak for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

A long pause followed, with the two men never breaking eye contact. Finally John turned round and said to Mike, "Did you tell him about me?"

"Not a word," Mike answered, a grin on his face.

"Then who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did," Sherlock said plainly, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. He began to put on his coat, a dark blue belstaff. "I told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, with a man clearly just home from military in Afghanistan. It wasn't a difficult leap." Be then proceeded to tie a blue silk scarf around his neck.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked again.

"I've got myself an eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we might be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow at 7pm. Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."

"Is that it?" John said, raising his left hand to accept his phone back.

"Is that what?"

"We've only just met and we're going to look at a flat."

"Problem?" Sherlock asked, puzzled, cocking his head in a bird like manner.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know you're name."

Sherlock paused before looking into John's eyes again and taking a deep breath. "I know you're an army doctor who's been delivered home from service in Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he just walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp is psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, dont you think?" All that in one breath.

He walked out the door before popping his head round it again. "The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Bakers Street." He winked before leaving and walked quickly down the corridor and out of sight.

John looked at Mike in astonishment, and Mike said "Yeah, he's always like that."

What Mike nor John knew was that Sherlock was actually leaning against the wall just round the corner, trying to make sense of the feelings inside him he barely understood, feelings he had not felt in a long, long time. Feelings he thought he had pushed away for ever.

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**Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed this second chapter and there are more coming very soon! Xx**


	3. Flat Share

**Hi readers! Welcome to Chapter 3 of False Names. In this chapter, John and Sherlock go to 221b for the first time and John starts to make some of his own deductions about Sherlock...**

**This Chapter has some minor swearing and cursing, but nothing that isn't in the show. As Sherlock is rated as a 12 (at least in the UK) I think this chapter is still a T, but just a warning in case you are sensitive to that sort of stuff.** **Hope you enjoy!**

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_Flat share_

John sat at his desk, staring at his laptop as it logged on. His therapist had recommended writing a blog about everything that happened to him. But what happened to him? His home screen flashed on and he went to click on the icon that took him straight to his blog page. It came up blank. He hadn't written a word. He would have started today, he really would, but right now he had other things on his mind.

Sherlock. How the hell did he know all that stuff? About the war, his therapist, and Harry. He hadn't told anyone about some of the things he said. He couldn't shake the mysterious man's face from his mind. The dark, longish curls that covered the top part of his ears and his pale complexion. The high forehead and sharp cheekbones. And his eyes. They were monolid with dark lashed, and the irises were blue-green, with gold flecks.

John shook his head as if trying to evict the image from his mind's eye. Why was he thinking about the colour of Sherlock's eyes, his hair, his cheekbones? That was easy, because of the name on the inside of his right wrist, not a navy blue colour like Mike's, but a dark tan, showing he had not yet touched his soul mate. Written there was the name William.

William. _William_. **William**. William. No matter how he said it, it didn't sound right on his tongue. Perhaps hewas destined to never meet his soul mate. Perhaps they were already dead. He would like to think he would know if anything had happened to them, but would be?

Sherlock, however, felt right. He couldn't explain it, but it did. As soon as he had seen him, it felt like he was the only person in the room. John remembered how he felt compelled to lend Sherlock his phone, and how the man had taken it and handed it back without even brushing fingers. _Stop making it such a big deal_ thought John. _It's only a text._Wait... _The text. _He took it out his pocket and clicked on the recently sent messages.

**If brother owns green ladder arrest brother.**

**SH**

What kind of situation caused someone to send a text like _that?_

He couldn't write his blog, so he opened Google and typed in two words. _Sherlock Holmes_. He hesitated before pressing enter. This felt like a violation ofSherlock's privacy, but then the other man didn't hesitate to reveal some of his most private secrets. He pressed enter. Up popped several suggestions of estate agents called Sherlock's Homes, before he came to a website named _The Science Of Deduction. _He clicked on it and found he was only mildly surprised at what he discovered.

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The next day, John ordered a taxi for 18:45, and told him to go to 221b Bakers street. It wasn't that far to walk, but his leg forbid him to walk more than five minutes without bursts of pain shooting through his muscles. He remembered what Sherlock had said about it being psychosomatic, but then ignored it. He was pretty sure he knew his own body better than some random-weirdo-genius bloke who he just met.

The taxi ride took longer than expected (John had forgotten how every hour seemed to be rush hour in central London) but he eventually made it to221b. Waiting outside was an impatient Sherlock, wearing virtually the same as he had been yesterday with his coat and scarf, but today the scarf was black. John paid his fare and pushed himself out of the black cab.

"Mr Holmes," said John, holding out his hand for the man to shake. The other man kept his hands in his coat pockets, not even glancing down at his hand. _Bit rude_ thought John, though he decided - for once - to keep his mouth shut.

"Please," the younger man said, "call me Sherlock. Shall we?" he added, gesturing to a glossy black door with a gold knocker and 221b written in gold lettering. Next door was a shabby looking sandwich shop named _Speedy's_.

"Yeah of course," John replied glancing up and down the street. The sandwich shop was the only shabby looking thing on the street. "This is a prime spot. Must be expensive." He said to Sherlock.

"The landlady, Mrs Hudson, is doing me a special deal. Owes me a favour. Her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida a couple of years back. I was able to help out." Sherlock went to walk up the front steps of 221b and knocked on the knocker.

"Sorry, you stopped her husband getting executed?"

"Oh no, I ensured it." said Sherlock with a sly smile.

Before John could inquire why the bloody hell this Mrs Hudson would want her husband executed, the door opened to reveal a woman in her early sixties with short, light brown hair and turquoise eye shadow.

"Sherlock," she said, greeting the man by pulling him into a hug that he did not return. It seemed Sherlock didn't much like human contact. Instead, the man stood with his arms stubbornly by his side and waited for the ordeal to be over. When she finally released him, he took a step back and gestured to the man behind him.

"Mrs Hudson, this is Dr John Watson."

"It's great to meet you John, come on in."

The hallway had floral wallpaper and a dark carpet, but the landlady and Sherlock headed straight upstairs. John sighed. His leg was aching, and he didn't know if he could keep going up and down these stairs. He supposed his leg would get better over time, but he just wished it would hurry up.

By the time he reached the top, Mrs Hudson was already in the flat and Sherlock was waiting at the top - an odd gesture, but one he appreciated. He gave him a nod before heading inside. The flat was small but cosy, and cluttered with junk. A fireplace was the centrepiece of the room and by the side of it was two armchairs, one a dark red and the other black, both with union jack pillows.

Bookshelves lined the alcoves beside the fireplace and was by far the neatest part of the flat. There was a table, but it was covered with papers and books in an unorganised heap. In fact, every available space was used. The wallpaper was black and cream patterned and the floor was wood. John glanced into the kitchen and saw the tables and countertops were crowded with science equipment. What kind of person had lived here before?

"Well this is nice, very nice indeed." John commented.

"Yes, I thought so, my thoughts exactly," Sherlock agreed. "As soon as I move the rest of my stuff in."

"-As soon as we move all this rubbish out."

They both spoke at the same time, and looked at each other sheepishly.

"Well... Um... Well we can..." Sherlock began

"This is all your stuff?" John asked.

"Yeah but we can... Straighten things up a bit."

"That a skull?" John said pointing to the ornament on the fireplace using his walking stick.

"A friend of mine. Well I say a friend..."

"What do you think then Dr Watson?" Interrupted Mrs Hudson. "There's another bedroom downstairs if you'll be needing two bedrooms."

John furrowed his brow and looked from Sherlock to Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was also looking at her, but with a different look. A look that said _stop talking now._

"Of course we'll be needing two bedrooms..." John trailed off. He saw what she was getting at and sighed.

"Oh don't worry, there's all sorts round here. Mrs Turner next door's got _married ones._" The last part of her sentence was hushed, as if Mrs Turner could hear what they were saying.

John and Sherlock's eyes met for a moment before he turned away. If he was right, he thought he saw Sherlock blush. Did Mrs Hudson know something? John collapsed into the red armchair on top of the union jack pillow and voiced one of the many questions on his mind.

"So I looked you up in the internet last night." That didn't come out as a question, but a statement.

"Anything interesting?" Sherlock said, turned round to sort through the papers on the table.

"I found your website. _The Science of Deduction."_

"What did you think?" He had finally turned around to face him. He wore an expression of anticipation, as if he knew what was coming. John was looking amused, as if he didn't quite believe what he had read.

"You said you could identify a software designer by their tie, and an airline pilot by their left thumb?"

"Yes. And I could read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits in your mobile phone."

"How?"

Before he could answer, Mrs Hudson came bustling in from the kitchen holding a newspaper.

"What about these suicides then, Sherlock? Thought that would be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

John had heard about these in the news. Three people had killed themselveswith the same poison, all in places they had no reason to be. Surely it wasn't a coincidence?

"No. Four. There's been a fourth. And it's different this time." Sherlock was looking out the window. There was a police car outside, blue and yellow lights flashing in the evening street lamp light. At that very moment, a man with silver-grey hair came running up the stairs wearing a smart shirt and trousers, slightly out of breath.

"Where?"

"Brixton, Lorestant Gardens."

"What's different. You wouldn't have come to me if it was the same."

"You know they never leave notes? This one did. Will you come?"

"Who's on forensics?"

"Anderson."

"He won't work with me," He said casually, as if people refused to work with him often. Maybe they did.

"Don't worry, he won't be your assistant."

"I _need_ an assistant." Sherlock muttered.

_"Will you come."_ The man almost sounded like he was begging now.

"Not the police car, I'll be right behind."

"Thank you." the mystery man replied, as if he has expected that to go worse. He ran back down the stairs and a few seconds later he heard the door of a car slam. Meanwhile, John was looking between Mrs Hudson and Sherlock, looking confused. The landlady, however, didn't look at all nervous. Did the police often come round asking for this mans help?

Sherlock was still staring out the window. The police car pulled away, and only once it was half way down the street did he do anything.

"Brilliant!" he shouted, jumping into the air as if he had just been offered a free holiday, not a suicide investigation. "Yes! Ah, four serial suicides and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas! Mrs Hudson, I'll be late, might need some food."

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up." With that, he was gone, taking the stairs three at a time, leaving John even more in the dark.

"Look at him, dashing about," Mrs Hudson said, shaking her head. "_My_ husband was just the same." _What did she mean by that?_ "But you're more the sitting down type, I can tell. I'll make you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John yelled, making his new landlady jump a mile. Sorry. I'm so sorry. It's just sometimes this bloody thing..." John said tapping his walking stick on his lower calf.

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip."

"Cup of tea would be lovely, thanks." John exhaled.

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper." She bustled back into the chaotic kitchen.

"And a couple of biscuits if you've got them."

"Not your housekeeper!" She called as the kettle flicked on.

John picked up the newspaper (The Daily Mail, not his preferred choice) Mrs Hudson have previously been holding and saw the headline:

**"_Don't commit suicide" says Detective Inspector_**

Staring back at him was the silver-haired man who had just burst into the flat.

"You're a doctor."

John looked up and saw Sherlock hovering in the doorway.

"In fact you're an army doctor."

"Yes." John said, pushing himself put if his chair using his stick. He really couldn't see where this was going.

"Any good?"

"Very," he replied. What is it with him and one word answers? "Very good."

"Seen a lot of injuries then. Violent deaths." _Nice way to put it, Sherlock._

"Yes. Too many." John didn't like talking about his time in service.

"A bit of trouble too I bet."

"Yes, enough for a lifetime. Far too much."_ I see it every night, when I close my eyes._

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh God yes."

They both rushed down the stairs, even with John's leg, and stood by the door to put on their coats.

"I'll skip the tea thanks Mrs Hudson. I'm going out," called John up the stair.

"Both of you?" she yelled back, rushing down the steps as fast as her 'hip' would allow her.

"Possible suicides? Four of them?" Sherlock interrupted. "There's no point of sitting at home when there's finally something _fun_ going on!" He looked on the verge of jumping with excitement all over again.

* * *

He went to grab Mrs Hudson by the shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. It seemed the no-touching rule did not apply when he was _this_ excited. _This excited about suicide_ he reminded himself.

* * *

"Look at you, all excited, it's not decent," Mrs. Hudson said, pushing him away gently.

* * *

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs Hudson, is on."

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**Hope you enjoyed! (More Johnlock coming, I promise, but its kind of slow burn.)**

**Constructive criticism appreciated, please rate as I would really like to know what you think Xx**


	4. Explanation

**Hi readers! Welcome to the fourth chapter of False Names! This chapter is the taxi ride from 221b to Lorestant Gardens. Sherlock finally spills the beans on his skills!**

**Last chapter had some formatting issues so sorry if you had to put up with that. ****Its fixed now but sorry if you had to put up with that.**

**Please enjoy!**

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_Explanation_

Sherlock flagged down a taxi and they both clambered in, sitting in silence for several minutes. This suited Sherlock just fine, as it gave him time to calm down and think. Several times he had arrived at crime scenes to excited to make any sound deductions. This didn't go down well, especially at murder scenes when there were family members around. For some reason they found it offensive when he smiled.

His second meeting with John had gone better than he had expected. He hadn't said anything to scare him away so far. Well, so far .Their meeting was far from over. Now they were going to investigate a possible suicide. How romantic, thought Sherlock. Taking your maybe soul mate to see a dead body.

John had a curious effect on Sherlock, and one that he was definitely not used to. He made him nervous, and Sherlock Holmes doesn't get nervous. Worse than that, he made him stutter and stumble over his words, when Sherlock Holmes was never lost for words. But worse of all, he made him feel. And Sherlock Holmes shouldn't feel. It's too dangerous.

"Ok you've got questions," Sherlock said, finally giving in to John's curious glances that he had been trying to ignore.

"Yeah where are we going?" John was determined to find out as much as he could while Sherlock was in a questions mood.

"Crime scene, next."

OK, so maybe Sherlock didn't have a questions mood. "Who are you, what do you do?"

"What do you think?" asked Sherlock.

"I'd say private detective, but..."

"But what?" Sherlock prompted.

"But, the police don't go to private detectives."

"I'm a consulting detective. I'm the only one in the world, I invented the job. It means when the police are out of their depth - which is always - they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs," John said, amused. Sherlock glared at him. He hoped this time had been different, but it seemed he had to prove himself to John too. Here goes, thought Sherlock, taking a breath. Amateur indeed.

"When I met you yesterday I asked you Afghanistan or Iraq yesterday. You looked surprised,"

"How did you know about that?" This must have been the third or fourth time John had asked now. and Sherlock decided it was time to give up the ghost and tell him. That was bound to change his mind.

"I didn't know, I saw. The way you hold yourself, your haircut, says military. But your conversation as you entered says trained at Bart's. So army doctor, obvious. When you handed me your phone I saw your tan, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad recently but not sunbathing. You limp really bad when you walk but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, as if you've forgotten about it. That shows it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury is traumatic. Wounded in action then. Wounded in action, tan, Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist," John said quietly.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapists."

There was a pause - Sherlock made sure if it. Just enough time for John to process what he just said.

"Then there's your brother. Your phone, it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player. If you're looking for a flat share you wouldn't waste your money on this. It's a gift then. Scratches. Many, over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his luxury phone like this. It's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy. You know it already.

"The engraving," John said, nodding.

"Harry Watson, from Clara Xxx". Harry is clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not you're Father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin but you're a war hero looking for somewhere to stay. It's unlikely you've got any extended family, certainly not one you're close with.

"Now Clara, who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment, expenses of the gift says wife, not girlfriend. It was given to him recently, the model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, six months old and he's just giving it away? Marriage in trouble then. If she left him, he would have kept it. Sentiment. People do. But no. He wants rid of it. He left her.

"He gave the phone to you which says he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help? It shows you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife. Maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How could you possibly know about the drinking."

"Shot in the dark. Good one though. There are tiny little scuff marks around the edge of the charging socket. Every night be goes to plug it in, but his hands are shaking. He scratches the plastic. Never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunks without them. So it seems you were right."

"I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs."

"That was... amazing." John said, staring at the detective in awe.

"You think so?" Sherlock said, raising his brow in surprise and confusion. It pained John to see how genuinely surprised he looked.

"Yeah of course it was. It was extraordinary. Can you teach me to do that?" John

"That's not what people normally say." Sherlock stated.

"What do they normally say?" When speaking to Sherlock, John got the got the impression he knew exactly what he was saying, as if he had had every conversation before. But this turn of events seemed to throw him.

"Piss off." Sherlock smiled, but rather sadly. Not many people appreciated what he could do. Most people found it annoying or freaky.

Not that he was feeling sorry for himself.

Definitely not.

John laughed. "Anything else?" John asked.

"Well... um..." he stumbled. There was always one thing he refrained from deducing, at least out loud. One thing that was absolutely not his business. But he had asked, hadn't he? "No. That's it."

They sat in silence again, both looking out their separate windows, occasionally looking round at each other but never catching each others gaze.

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**Thanks for reading! Please review as it means a lot. Hope you enjoyed! **


	5. The Pink Lady

**Hi readers! Welcome to the fifth chapter of False Names.**

**Sorry it's been a while, with back to school, wifi problems, saving issues, illness and homework I haven't had a whole lot if free time**!

**Secondly, sorry this chapter is kind of long, I was going to split it but just couldn't find a good place.**

**Anyway, enough of my chat, on with** **the story_ (enjoy!)_**

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_The Pink__Lady_

As the taxi pulled up beside an abandoned house, it began to rain. The fine kind of rain that got you quite wet without you really noticing and left the spider webs glistening with tiny crystals. John watched it in the yellow light of the street lights as he reached for the door handle. The pair got out of the taxi, paid the fair and walked towards the house. Itwas dilapidatedand broken, the windows smashed and roof tiles missing. The grass was long and an old for sale sign looked like it had been there for years. Outside the house was blue and white police tape and several police cars, their blue and yellow lights illuminating the houses.

"Did I get anything wrong?" Sherlock asked. "My deductions?"

"Me and Harry don't get on" John said. He hadn't realised how true Sherlock was. It almost felt good to talk about this to someone other than his therapist, someone who wasn't paid to care, paid to listen. "Never have. Clara and Harry split up... three months ago. Their getting a divorce. Harryisa drinker."

"Spot on then. I didn't expectto beright about everything," he smirked.

"Harry is short of Harriet." This made the smirk slide off Sherlock's face like mud.

"Harry's yoursister!" he exclaimed.

"Look, Sherlock, what am I even doinghe-" John began.

"Sister... Ugh," Sherlock continued, oblivious.

"Seriously Sherlock"

"There's alwayssomething," He continued to mutter.

"Hello freak," said a voice. From out of a police car came a woman wearing a blouse, skirt and high heels. Her hair was curly, big and dark and she was tallish. Her skin was a medium tone and her eyes were a light hazel.

"Ah Sally, I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock said calmly. Was he not bothered this woman had just called him a freak? John certainly was. He clenched his fists and battled the urge to use them.

"Why?" Sallysighed, soundingbored.

"Iwas invited."

"Why?"Sally repeated, sounding more annoyed.

"Ithinkhe want me to take a look."

"Well you know what I think don't you," She gave a fakely sweet smile.

"Always Sally. Even though you didn't make it home last night."

"And who's this?" Sally said, turning to John and ignoring Sherlock's last comment.

"A colleague of mine, Dr John Watson. John, this is Sally Donovan."

"Colleague? How do you get a colleague?" she looked over to John to say the next snark comment. "Did he follow you home?" She asked in a grating voice.

"How exactly would he follow me home? It might be a bit difficult since welive together."

John looked over to Sherlock; he was smiling. Apparently he had handled Donovan in the right way. He also looked a little surprised that John had declared them flat matesso quickly. Sally glared at John before saying into her radio, "Freak's here, bringing him in."

John hated that word.Freak.He couldn't help it. Before he knew what had happened, the words burst out his mouth. "Stop calling him that," he said in almost a growl. "Stop calling him a freak."

"Why? He is one," she taunted back.

"John," Sherlock said, warning. He looked between the two. All Sherlock needed was for his assistant to get thrown off the scene. He wanted reach out and grab John's sleeve, to stop him doing anything. His arm actually moved from his side, until he remembered the name on his wrist. Did it work through clothing? He wasn't sure, but he didn't wantthe humiliation offeeling it lighting up for the first time in public. He could feel himself blushing at the thought, and quickly made himself scratch the back of his head instead, his fingertips disappearing into his dark curls.

John looked at Sherlock, right in the eyes. In this light, they were a delicate green. They looked concerned. John's eyes meanwhile, were a mix of anger and pain. John directed a dirty look at Donovan before doing a one-eighty and walking into he front garden of the abandoned house.

"Ah Anderson, here we are again." Sherlock said as if nothing had happened. Standing in front of the door was man with a large nose, hair in curtains and large, puffy lips.

"This is a crime scene I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" he said, hisvoicenasal and snobby.

"Quite clear," Sherlock replied. "And is your wife away for long?"

"Oh don't pretend you figured that out, someone told you that." Anderson snapped

"Your deodorant told me that," he argued. "It's formen."

"Well ofcourseit's formen,I'mwearing it."

"So's Sargent Donovan." That infuriating smirk was back on his face. "May I go in?"

"Now whatever yourimplying-" Anderson began, rushing to get his defensive words out.

"I'm not implyinganything. I'm sure Sally popped round for a nice littlechatand justhappenedto stay the night. And Iassumeshe scrubbed your floors judging by the state of her knees."

He pushed past Anderson and John followed, some of his anger diminished and replaced by amusement.

"Who's he?" Lestrade asked

"My assistant," Sherlock replied. " I said I needed one, didn't I?"

"Sherlock, I'm breaking every rule letting you inhere-"

"Because you need me." His voice was void of emotions.

"Yes I do," Lestrade said honestly, before muttering, "God help me."

"John Watson," John said, introducing himself without being asked. He extended a hand for Lestrade to take. Unlike Sherlock, he took it and shook it vigorously. Lestrade was wearing a faint smile and looked over to Sherlock, who simply stared back.

"Greg Lestrade."

"So where are we?" John questioned. He then cringed at his tone of voice. It was too light, too happy. He didn't want to sound as if he was enjoying himself as much as Sherlock. Though the younger man was managing to suppress a smile, he was rocking on his feet, heel to toe, and his eyes were alert and bright.

"Upstairs," the Detective Inspector said, tipping his head towards the large flight of stairs.

John looked up; there were at least three flights at least. Hetap taptapped towards the bottom and began the long climb up. John noticed the wide staircase, high ceilings and the elegant hand rails. This house was probably very grand in its day, shame it was left to rot.Shame it doesn't have a lift, John thought bitterly as his leg stung with new pain. Sherlock's voice found its way into his head.You're therapist thinks it's psychosomatic, quite correctly I'm afraid.

Before he knew it, he was at the top of the stairs, all three flights. He must have been further in thought than he had realised, as somewhere up the stairs both Lestrade and Sherlock had overtaken him.

"I can give you two minutes,"Lestradesaid, brushing off several other police officers as he opened the door for Sherlock. John took a deep breath before entering; he didn't want to show it, but he was a little nervous of what he might find. All of the bodies he had examined in Afghanistanwere bloodiedand maimed, some barley recognisable. He wanted to brace himself for what might be behind the crumbling plaster.

Sherlock waited like an eager puppy for the door to open, as if it held a winning lottery ticket,nota dead body. As soon as it was wide enough for him to get through, he pushed past Lestrade and entered the bleak, damp room. In the very middle if the room lay a woman, face down, dressed head to toe in pink. Her coat, her shoes, even her chipped nail varnish was so bright it hurt John's eyes. From what he could see, she was completely unmasked. He cursed himself for being such a drama queen.Of course,he thought to himself,you knew she took poison. Why did you expect blood and gore?

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit card," Lestrade said. "Running them now for contacts. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her." All three of them stared at the pinkwomanbefore Sherlock broke the silence:

"Shut up."

"I didn't say anything!" Lestrade protested, defending himself because of words he didn't speak.

"You were thinking, it was annoying." The Detective Inspector threw his hands in the air and walked backwards.

"Anderson! Keep everyone out for a minute!" Lestrade said while walking out the door.

Sherlock leaned over the body, tilting his head in a bird like fashion. In any other situation, thepositionmay have been comical. It was - and wasn't - easy to forget that this woman was here because she had killed herself in this room. The consulting detective quickly got to work, starting at the legs and making his was towards the head.

Sherlock took a pair of latex gloves from his pocket andteasedthemon tohis fingers. He took a quick glance at the bottom of Jennifer Wilson's shoes before moving on to her lower legs. (What this told Sherlock about the victim, John didn't know.) There didn't seemto bemuchout of placein the woman's midriff as the younger man moved straight to inspect her neck.

He curled his finger around the small, fly away pieces of hair that hung close to her neck and tried the clasp of her gleaming necklace. He then wiped his fingers under the woman's coat collar and held them up in the bright LED light illuminating the crime scene. As an after thought, he reached into her coat and pulled out a pink umbrella, the same vibrant shade as the rest of her outfit.

Sherlock then tentatively moved on to her hands. Before reaching out his arm, the detective seemed reluctant to touch the bare skin of the body. Maybe it was just John's imagination, as he picked up the left hand gently and turned it over, tracing her palm lines. Finally, he scratched at the word etched into the floor. It readR-a-c-h-e.

"Got anything?" Lestrade asked once Sherlock had finished his inspection.

"Not much."

"She's German," said a voice from the doorway. Anderson was leaning against the rotten frame. "Rache. German for revenge. She could be trying to tell ussomethi-"

"Yes, thank you for yourinput." Sherlock had crossed the room in a few long strides and slammed the door in Anderson's face. John heard a faint thump as if the irritating forensic scientist stumbled away from the door.

Lestradesighed. "So she's German?" he said, walking over with his hands in his pockets. John thought that he was the kind of man who was calm and

"Of course not," he replied,speakingas if hewas amazedhe even had to explain. "She's fromout of townthough. Intended to stay in london for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far so obvious."

"Sorry, obvious?" John questioned, and Sherlock ignored.

"What about the message?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock ignored him too and instead turned to John. "Doctor Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" John said. This conversation was quickly becoming a train wreck of questions.

"Of the body," Sherlock corrected. "You're amedical man."

"We have a whole team outside whocan-" Greg began. Once again, Sherlock interrupted.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock said with a faint sigh.

John looked over at Lestrade, asking the detective inspectors permission before approaching. "Oh do as he says, help yourself," Greg answered. His radio then gave out a scratchy noise and Greg exited the room. Sherlock made sure the door clicked shut before letting the smile loose on his face.

John crouched down as fast as his leg would allow and shot a look at Sherlock, who was on the other side

"What am I doing here, Sherlock?" John hissed.

"Helping me make a point," Sherlock replied, grinning like an idiot.

"I'm supposeto behelping you pay the rent!"

"Yeah but this is more fun."

John couldn't believe this. How could he say examining a body isfun?He had always hated it in Afghanistan, having to find out exactly how that person died, imagining exactly how they felt in their last moments. "Fun? there's a woman lying dead!"

"Perfectly sound analysis but I did hope you'd go deeper."

The two men stared at each other for a few seconds before John finally gave in and started toexaminethe body.

"Asfixiation, probably," John concluded. "Passed out,chokedon her own vomit. Can't smell any alcohol on her but it could have been aseizure, possiblydrugs-"

"You know what this is you've read the papers." The look in Sherlock'seyeswas one of steely determination.

"This is one of the suicides then?" John said conclusively.It's strange,John thought,Sherlock looked like he was about to disagree before a voice cut him off.What other options are there?

"Two minutes I said I need anything you've got." Lestrade had reappeared in the doorway, arms crossed, looking slightly annoyed.

"Victim in her late thirties. Professional person going by her clothes, something in the media going by the franklyalarmingshade of pink. Traveled from Cardiff today, intended to stay in London for one night. Obvious by the size if her suitcase."

"Suitcase?" the DI asked.

"Yes suitcase. She's been married for at least ten years, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew shewas married."

"Oh for god, sake if your just making thisup-" The words werebarelyout of his mouth before Sherlock replied, his words tumbling over each other in haste to escape his mouth.

"Her wedding ring, ten years old at least. The rest of her jewellery has been regularly cleaned but not her ring. Common sign of an unhappy marriage." (John idly wondered if Harry had the same trait.) "The inside of her ring is muchshinierthan the outside which shows its regularly removed. The only polishing it gets it when she works it off her finger.

"It's not for work, look at her nails, she doesn't work with her hands. So what - or rather who -doesshe remover her rings for. Clearly not one lover, she'd never sustainthe fiction ofbeing single for that long, so more likely a string if them."

"Fantastic..." John muttered

"Did you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked,half joking. The other half of him wondered if he was mocking him. He had never been very good at reading hidden meanings. He much preferred reading people.

"Sorry," John said, crossing his arms and shifting his feet a little.Tell tale sign of embarrassment.He's not mocking me then.The deduction popped into Sherlock's head before he had time to process it, and he got rid of it immediately.

"No its... fine." In fact, it was more than fine; the detective had never received such high praise for his skills before and he wasn'tsure how to accept it. The pair shareda moment ofeye contact before Sherlock broke it be turning towards Lestrade.

"Cardiff?"

"Her coat is damp except her collar, only the inside is damp. She turned it up against the wind. Can't have traveled more than about three hours or her coat would have dried. She has an umbrella but its dry. Strong wind then. Where have we had heavy rain and strong wind in the radius of three hours? Cardiff." He took a quick breath before his next string of impressive claims.

"NowRachel.The fact she thought of her when she was dying shows she was probably family. Close family is most likely. But the real question is why did she scratch the name into the floorboards? Answer: we need to find out who Rachel is."

"She was writingRachel?"Greg exclaimed.

"No," Sherlock replied, voice dripping with sarcasm, "She was writing an angry note inGerman."

"So where's her case, I want to look in it."

"You keep going on about a case," Lestrade asked with a furrowed brow, "What do you mean exactly?"

"Hersuitcase.Did you take it down for evidence or something?"

"But there was no case, Sherlock, there was never a case." Sherlock froze where he stood. John and Greg thought he would be disappointed with his miscalculation, but instead started grinning.

"We need to find who has her case."

"How do you know she has one?" John inquired.

"She has tiny muddy splash marks up her left leg, you only get that kind of spread if you wheel a small suitcase behind you with your right hand," Sherlock explained his reasoning rather like a primary school teacher would explain a simple maths equation.

"Maybe she left here case at the hotel?" John said, testing his theory. Sherlock quickly dismissed it.

"She never got that far, her hair is a mess. This womancoordinatesher lipstick and her shoes, she would have never left the hotel room looking liketha-Oh."

Sherlock froze. "Oh," he said again, louder. Then he sprinted to the door and down the stairs two at a time, each large step sending a creak echoing through the house. John limped after him, but was far behind. By the time he reached the banister, Sherlock was a flight bellow.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John yelled, causing several police officers to turn his way.

"Itwasmurder, all of them," he replied, "Serial killers, got to love them. Always a tricky case and always so desperate to get caught. You've just got to wait for them to make a mistake." His fingers were dancing up and down the banister, sending flakes of paint floating to the floor.

"Well we can't just wait around!" Shouted Lestrade, sound more irritated by the minute.

"We're done waiting. When she was found she could have been here long, is that right?"

"No not long at all. Less than an hour."

"Less than an hour... An hour... A news blackout, can you do that? Don't say that you've found her. Nothing for a day."

"Why?"

"Just look at her...reallylook. Houston we have a mistake, big mistake number one!" He ran down the stair case and then turned around as an afterthought and shouted: "Find out who Rachel is!"

"What mistake?" John didn't know it was possible for someone to sound as annoyed as Lestrade did now.

"Pink!"With that, Sherlock descended the rest of the stairs in a few abnormally large strides before he lost sight of him completely. He assumed

John didn't bother going after him. Heknewthe man would be all but gone by the time he had limped down the stairs and out of the house. Lestrade didn't move to follow him either, so assumed his was a fairly regular occurrence. The Detective Inspector stomped towards the door. However, he paused just before he reached it and looked back.

"Good to meet you, John." Greg's voice sounded sincere despite how irritated he obviously was. He gave the man a small nod and proceeded to leave.At least someone on this police force isn'tan asshole,thought John.

Luckily, he wasn't stopped by any police officers on his slow descent. He didn't fancy explaining why he was here. His path out of the house was clear until he met Sally Donovan at the very edge of the overgrown front garden.

"He's gone." Sally had seen him looking around and taken it upon herself to help.

"What, Sherlock?"

"Mm," she hummed, returning to her clipboard. "He just took off, he does that."

"Is he coming back?"

"Didn't look like it."

"Right..." John looked around, looking for any indication to where he might be. There was nothing, not even a road name. "Sorry, where am I?" he said eventually to Donovan, regretting having to speak to the woman again.

"Brixton," replied Sally.

"Do you know where I can get a cab round here? "It's just my leg..."

"Try the main road." He pushed past her and exited through the front gate. He reached out to pull up the police tape when the irritating officer spoke again. She came a few steps closer.

"Hey," she said, her voice pointed. "Your not his friend. He doesn't have friends. So what are you?"

"I'm... Nobody. I've just met him." The statement was true, the men had met butthirty-sixhours ago.So why do I feel so defensive already?he wondered.

"Well in that case, stay away from him." Therequesttoo John by surprise. Why would she take such direct action. Sure, Sherlock had some unusual talents and a strange hobby, but he seemed honest enough.And hot.

"Why?"

"You know why he's here don't you? He like this stuff. He gets off on it and one day... just solving it isn't goingto beenough. One day were gonna be standing round a body and Sherlock Holmesis going to bethenman thatput it there.

"Why wound he do that?"

"Because he's a psychopath," she said, shrugging her shoulders, "and psychopaths get bored."

"Sally!" An unknown officer called her name from a nearby police car. She began to walk away.

"Stay away from Sherlock Holmes," she called back, not even bothering to turn her head, her voice a lazy monotone.

With that, John began to limp back to the main road. The rain was heavier now, and the sky darker. Two stars had emerged among the blanket of sky, the Dog Star in the centre of the sky and one just to the right, smaller but just as bright.

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**Thanks for reading, hope you enjoyed!****Please review as it really does make my day to know someone enjoyed what I write or take time out of their day to help me improve Xx**


	6. Old Habits

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**Hi readers! This is the second upload of this chapter as there were a few formating issues with the last one. This chapter is from Greg's perspective which I am very happy about because sometimes scripted stuff gets pretty boring. Hope you enjoy!**

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**Old Habits**

Greg turned the key to his flat and stepped inside. It was small and plain, nowhere near as nice as his old house, but there was no way he could ever live there again. He wasn't even invited in for a cup of tea when picking the kids up for the weekend. Just a swift knock at the door and the children thrust out the door into his arms, the same in reverse come Sunday evening. Dumping his bag by the door, he headed straight for the kitchen, in particular the cupboard containing his brandy.

He poured himself a generous measure and put the bottle back. If he left it on the side, it was more tempting to pour himself another glass. He knew his limits and didn't want to over step them on a work night. He used to drink a lot more after the breakup, but forced himself to control himself nowadays. This particular glass was enough to get him drowsy, not drunk.

He collapsed onto the sofa and it groaned, not because Greg was heavy, but because it was the only seat that ever got used. The fabric was worn and bare in places, the cushion much flatter. It just so happened that this was Tommy and Abbi's favourite spot too. The spare space was simply a consolation and for the holding of empty plates, the armchair more for storage.

He kicked off his shoes without bothering to undo the laces and reached for the TV remote. He glanced up at the small screen, saw it was the news and turned over. He saw enough of that stuff in real life without having to hear about it at home. He settled for whatever crap show was on (Friends by the sound of tinned laughter. Greg found it was one of the most bearable shows and even stopped to watch an episode sometimes) and took a sip from his glass. It was only background noise anyway. He needed time to think, but not the kind of thinking that required silence.

Greg was long since passed marvelling at Sherlock's skills and usually found them either helpful of annoying at this point in their friendship. John, however, was a new acquaintance and was new to "The Science of Deduction." Sherlock's new room-mate was in awe of his abilities, something that was both rare and helpful, if Greg's suspicions were true.

He had first seen the name printed on Sherlock's wrist about two months ago, and it was a day the pair had spoken of only once...

Sherlock had turned up for a case involving a locked room and a missing weapon, one of the most intriguing in Sherlock's mind. Unfortunately, he turned up high as a kite. Greg recognised the symptoms immediately (he had busted enough drug dens after all) and whisked him out of the room before he could do anything to embarrass himself. He let himself fall into the memory.

"What are you playing at?" he had hissed through his teeth.

"I have no idea what you mean George," Sherlock said as he tried to push past him into the crime scene.

Greg reached out and grabbed Sherlock's wrists. He yanked at both of the shirt cuffs and pushed up the white cotton. The memory of what was there still brought a bad feeling to his stomach. Covering the detective's thin arms were small, red and blue bruises, the newest still with a drop of dried, crusted blood in the centre. Injection sites.

The detective inspector put his head round the door, trying to think of some reason to excuse them both. "Sherlock is feeling feint so I've decided to take him home. Sally, you take charge." He shut the door before anyone could ask questions and turned back to the pitiful sight standing in the hallway. He had always suspected that Sherlock's relationship with drugs wasn't entirely healthy, but nothing as bad as this.

"I'm taking you home, Sherlock," Lestrade finally said. Sherlock avoided Greg's eye as he eventually caught on. The detective inspector hadn't previously noticed the slightly disheveled look Sherlock had. His dark, curly hairwas mattedand the cuffs of his shirtwere discolouredand dirty. There was also a blackish smudge on the top of one eye. Normal Sherlock would never allow himself or his clothes to become so dirty. Not unless he had nowhere to clean them. "Your homeless," he muttered. Lestrade had never seen the man look so ashamed.

He decided to take Sherlock to his flat. Greg directed him down the corridor and out if the building, then into the car. The other man said nothing as he slammed the door, just staring out of the window with a blank expression, taping his feet like crazy on the mat. He didn't have his usual rust bucket of a car, it was back at the yard. Instead, be had the police Astra and made use of its perks: blue and yellows all the way home.

At the flat, Lestrade first steered Sherlock towards the seat he usually sat in. Then he picked up his phone, scrolled trough his contacts and called Mycroft Holmes. The elder brother had once offered Greg money to spy on Sherlock, but he had refused. Ever since, Greg had his number, but had never used it. Now though, Mycroft answered in a matter of seconds.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" he said.

"Mycroft, you need to come over here. It's Sherlock, he-" He had hung up. Funny, he had thought to himself, he doesn't even know my adress. He then realised with a jolt that someone as powerful as Mycroft could simply find out. Meanwhile, Sherlock was scratching at his arm, ripping off the small scabs and leaving pink lines linking his bruises. It reminded him of a dot-to-dot.

A dribble of blood oozed from Sherlock's arm and ran down onto his wrist. He had been previously to busy to notice the name written there. It wasn't that much of a surprise to see a man's name written there, as Greg had always suspected that Sherlock might be gay. (He remembered the awkwardness when a woman at the bar had tried to chat Sherlock up.) Still, he felt guilty for outing him in this way. He wondered if it was anyone working in The Yard, there were a few Johns working there. Sherlock must have seen him staring, but didn't comment.

About ten minutes later, Mycroft knocked on the door. As soon as Lestrade clicked the lock open, the older brother pushed past and was in the living room. His eyes were wide with worry and his face crumpled when he saw Sherlock.

"Oh my god," Mycroft whispered, looking down at the pale, bare arms. "So many..."

"I think he's homeless too," Greg said.

"Yes... Yes of course he is..." He muttered, eyes flicking to different tell points on Sherlock's person. "Don't worry," Mycroft said finally, regaining some of his usual control and putting back in place his icy façade. "I can have this sorted out." He reached out, took Sherlock's arm and eased him up. "What are we going to do to you, brother mine?"

"Oh hello Mycroft," Sherlock said, smiling, as if he had only just noticed him. "Where are we going?"

"Somewhere that will help you, dear brother."Mycroftreplied. He then turned to Greg.

"Thank you for taking care of my brother before my arrival. I would shake your hand, but both my armsare engaged trying to keep Sherlock standing. We will be in contact soon, Gregory."

Three days of worrying and stress later, Greg received a phone call. He had just placed his mobile down on the table when to started to vibrate. There was no number or contact displayed, just the word "private".The detective inspector didn't hesitate in picking it up.

"Hello?"

"Hello Greg," said a baritone voice at the other end of the line.

"Sherlock!" he exclaimed, "Are you Ok? Where have you been? Have you been sleeping properly?"

"Slow down, Greg. I'm fine and yes, I'm sleeping for christ's sake."

"Well then where have you been?" he repeated.

"I'm at a rehab centre, have been since I left. This is the first chance I've had to call. I've been... unavailable."

"A rehab centre?" Greg made a low, whistling sound. "Do you know if you're going to be sentenced?"

"My brother has managed to wiggle out of a court case, not difficult in his position I suppose."

"That's good." Greg tried not to sound too pleased, but he was happy there was to be no discipline put in place. He really didn't wantto be called up for evidence against his friend.

"What did you mean by unavailable?"

Sherlock didn't answer immediately, as if considering if he wanted Greg to know. "It seemed that in my condition, I was reluctant to give up my use." He spoke after a pause. "I must have grown either unsettled or violent as they knocked me out. I managed to cleared the drug from my system yesterday but the nurses were quite insistent that I had lost my privilege of calling thanks to my episode," Sherlock finished bitterly. He hated being bossed around, something that Greg relished in. He gave a short laugh before his next question.

"How is everyone there?"

"Pleasant I suppose, the staff are very competent. Although they keep trying to make me eat." A faint voice at Sherlock's end of the line spoke, though Greg couldn't hear what they said. It seemed to be hurrying him along though as the detective quickly moved on to his next point.

"I wanted to talk to you about the other night. And what you saw."

"What, your injections?" Greg asked, a little confused.

"No," (he could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes), "About my name."

"Don't worry, mate. I won't tell anyone you're gay."

"I don't care about that," Sherlock said, once again using his you're an idiot voice."Just don't tell anyone my soul mate's name is John."

"Of course I won't, mate. Your secrets safe with me.

"Thank you. I have to go, the nurses are rushing me. Goodbye Greg."

Silence told him Sherlock had hung up.

Greg smiled at the memory. Sherlock had called him by his name. Usually such minor details got forgotten, erased to make room for more important information. The fact he had remembered illustrated the fact he made an effort with his phone call.

He smiled further when he remembered the pair at the crime scene earlier. The awkward introductions, the quick glances, the obvious sexual frustration.

John seemed like an alright bloke and certainly seemed a lot more accepting than a lot of people. The way John had complemented Sherlock on his skills was promising. There were many Johns in the world, and he guessed that not many would have reacted that way. But surely there couldn't be that many people called Sherlock? If John did have Sherlock's name, why doesn't he just come out and say it?_Then again_, Greg thought, _maybe coming out is the problem. _The doctor didn't seem like someone who was comfortable with their sexuality.

Greg imagined what a stable relationship might do for Sherlock. Someone who would always be there, no matter what idiotic situation the younger man got himself into. Lestrade defiantly wanted to see _that_ Sherlock. He had made up his mind. He would make it his personal mission to get the two idiots together. A wing man, but undercover. _A wing ninja_, he thought. Sherlock deserved him and John seemed like a good influence. Anyway, if he had to deal with that much eye sex at a crime scene again, he might just be the one committing the murder.

* * *

**And that's the chapter! I really hope there are. k more issues but if there are... let me know? Thanks to GlaszHeart for doing just that last time Xx**


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